


Conversations at the Thames

by badwolfofbakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: And thinking, Conversations, Dean and John have similar problems, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, Gen, It's a good place for talking, Not really any realtionships, Oneshot, Talking to a stranger, Thames, anger issues, just talking, kind of a coda, no romance or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:07:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfofbakerstreet/pseuds/badwolfofbakerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson can't deal with his problems, he hates his life, and he resents everyone. He heads out for a walk to think. At the same time, Dean Winchester has just beat up his best friend and turned his back on the ones who love him the most. He didn't know where he was going when he left, he just knew he needed to go somewhere they couldn't find him. Is there a better place than London? </p>
<p>These men with similar problems meet up and have a talk. Suss out their issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations at the Thames

John Watson stared at himself in the mirror; He hated his life. He simply couldn’t take it anymore. His wife was a liar and a murderer, or an attempted murderer. And an actual murderer, for all he knew. His best friend wanted him to be with her regardless, it didn’t matter that she shot him. And it was all his fault, because he chose her, because he liked that type. He was abnormally attracted to danger; So what if it was true, it was different when someone actually pointed it out. 

He exited the bathroom of 221B Baker Street where Mary and Sherlock were having their, now regular, afternoon tea. She had the baby sleeping on the couch next to her and Sherlock was standing, pacing, going over details of the Moriarty video. John should have been happy, pleased even, that there was a case on and he could get out of the house. But he wasn’t. He just kept walking into that bathroom and staring at himself in the mirror he used to stare into every morning. 

It had been months, nearly a year since the video saved Sherlock from exile. Christmas was rolling back around and John couldn’t care less. He loved his child, he did, and he loved his best friend... But he couldn’t love her, not anymore. And it killed him every day that he couldn’t care for her the way he used to. He felt like it was his fault that he couldn’t love her. Sometimes he wondered if he ever actually loved her at all. 

“John?” Sherlock said, snapping him from his thoughts. He was standing in the doorway of the sitting room, staring at them, “You okay?” He asked, his brow furrowed, his eyes roaming; He was no doubt deducing all of John’s innermost thoughts.

“Yeah.” John nodded, flicking his eyes from Sherlock to Mary and back to Sherlock. He cleared his throat, standing and clenching his fist, rubbing his fingers together as he turned his head slightly, pivoting his shoulders as if to move. Sherlock continued to stare; Mary was looking at her nails, “I’m...” John walked around to the front door, “Going for a walk.” He turned back to look at Sherlock and nodded, heading out the front door. 

He ran down the stairs, and tore through the front door, the fresh air hitting him in the face, cold as it may be, it was refreshing. And eye opening. He couldn’t continue, not as he was. He turned and headed straight for the Thames. 

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

Dean Winchester didn’t know how he ended up here. Out of all the places he could have gone after his fight with Castiel he chose to hop on a plane and fly to a different country. He was just so angry. He could feel his blood pumping through his veins and was glad that he’d stopped before reaching the airport to clean himself up. Getting on an airplane covered in other people’s blood wouldn’t bode well with, well anyone. 

He’d trashed the hotel room he stayed at for the hour or two before he caught his flight. Mirror’s broken, paintings broken, everything broken, just like his life. If it wasn’t for that damn mark, if it wasn’t for Crowley, if it wasn’t for his incessant need to be the one to fight evil. If it hadn’t been for his father, for yellow eyes, for all of it. There were a lot of factors that led Dean to where he was at that exact moment. None of them held a cure, none of them held a way out. 

He looked down at the water, the Thames they called it, and sighed, he could always jump in. The mark on his arm seemed to burn momentarily, as if reminding him that, no he couldn’t, because he’d wake up a monster. But he was already a monster, at least if he was a demon, he wouldn’t care. 

“You’re not thinking of jumpin, are you?” A voice asked, and for a moment he was worried Castiel had found him, until he realized the voice had a definite British accent, and it wasn’t the rough grasp of Crowley calling out to him. He turned to see a short blonde man, pivoting awkwardly on the sidewalk, as if he was contemplating whether or not he wanted to join Dean, save him or leave him be.

“Nah, just thinking.” Dean half smiled at the man, “Life’s kind of in shambles, this seemed like a good place to stop.” The man seemed to take this as an invitation to join him at the wall, strolling up and leaning against it. He was laughing at something.

“I understand that. This... Yeah this is a good place to think. Especially when your life is in shambles.” He sighed and breathed out, staring up at his rising breath. 

“You too, huh? What is it about this time of year that makes everyone crazy?” Dean decided that a random stranger’s company was better than being alone, especially if he could relate. 

“I’m not sure if it’s the time of year... Or if it’s just me.” The man sighed, Dean looked down as he saw something move and noticed the man was clenching his fist and unclenching it, as if trying to repress some urge or some bad habit. He could relate as he felt the mark prickle.

“I hear ya, brother.” Dean shook his head, “You know, it’s not my fault that everyone around me is so worried about me, thinks I’m dangerous or attracted to danger or something.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling this man about his life, but he just needed to get it out.

“Exactly!” The man gasped, a smile showing on his face, his eyes wide as if he’d just heard exactly what he’d been thinking, “You know, if I’m so drawn to danger, then I think I know what I’m getting myself into! And I think it should be _my_ say when I’m done! It’s not up to anyone else to make decisions for me.”

“Yes! Thank you!” Dean shouted, and then laughed lightly, realizing how loud he’d just been. The blonde man joined in with him though and Dean sniffed, smiling in the bitter air. He swallowed thickly, trying to bite back the tears that just sprang on him suddenly. He shook his head and cleared his throat, “Uh, so what’s your name, man?” 

“John Watson.” John held out his hand, Dean took it and shook.

“Dean Winchester.” He said, sticking his hands back into his jacket pockets and staring down at his feet. 

“So, what brings you all the way out here? You’re clearly not from around here.” John said, switching to small talk, something Dean hadn’t been expecting.

“Just trying to get away from the helpful people.” Dean said, “I did some messed up stuff back home... A friend was trying to help and I ended up... Well I ended up beating his face to a pulp.” 

“It happens.” John shrugged, “Doesn’t quite beat my situation though.” 

“Oh?” Dean smiled, knowing that if he’d told John the whole story, it would definitely top his, “Do tell.” 

“Well, my best friend faked his death right in front of me... I found a girl, married her, and then it turned out she was lying about who she was and shot him. He almost died, right in front of me.” Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, maybe John’s story could top his, “And to top it all off, the man who forced Sherlock to fake his death is now back into the fold.” 

“Wait, Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes, the detective?” Dean asked, realizing suddenly which John Watson he’d been talking to.

“The one and only.” John said, and Dean noticed a familiar gleam in his eye, the same gleam he got whenever someone asked him about Cass. It was admiration and a deep appreciation. A need. The realization hit Dean in the gut when he remembered what he’d done to Cass not even 48 hours before. 

“Wow. I’m talking to a celebrity. My brother loves your blog.” Dean scratched at his head, feeling a stab of rage thinking about Sam and then remembering Charlie and having to bite back tears again. 

“Thank you.” John sighed, not noticing Dean’s internal dilemma, and for that he was thankful, “So this friend of yours, the one you beat up for trying to help you... Do you think he’ll stop now?” John looked at him and his eyes widened for a moment as he recognized something in Dean, but they went back to normal as quick as they’d changed. 

“Nah. Cass will never stop trying to help me.” Dean smirked and shook his head, “Even though I told him I’d kill him if he came near me again.” 

“We all say things we don’t mean.” John tried, Dean shook his head again, turning back around to face the Thames, his eyes narrowing, his brow furrowing.

“Thing is, I did mean it at the time. I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more in my entire life.” He rubbed at his eyes, John turned too, throwing his arms atop the stone and folding his hands together. He didn’t look at Dean, but stared out across the water as well. 

“Sometimes we say things we _do_ mean... But then we change our mind.” John didn’t say anything else after this. They stood there in silence, staring at the flowing water before them. The sky was darkening and it looked as if it were about to rain. Dean sighed, damn London weather. 

“Sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever get tired of my crap.” Dean smiled to himself, knowing it wouldn’t happen.

“If your friend is truly like you say he is, if you don’t think he’ll ever stop trying to help... Then I don’t think he’ll ever tire of your complete and utter bull shit.” John looked sideways at Dean who blanched for a moment and then began laughing, John laughed along for a moment and then breathed deeply, “Sounds an awful lot like Sherlock to me, and believe me when I tell you, I could punch him in the face a hundred times and he’ll never stop trying to save me. He jumped off a building to save me.” 

“That’s a good friend.” Dean said, and then realized that Castiel was also a good friend. All the bad things they’d done to each other over the years, they were still there for each other when push came to shove. Cass had saved him more times than he could count, and that’s all he was trying to do.

“So while Cass may not have fallen off a building and faked his death to save your life, I’m sure letting you kick his arse a bit was his version of that.” John nudged Dean a bit and pushed himself back from the wall as they heard foot steps approaching, “That’ll be Sherlock.” John muttered.

“John?” A deep voice said, Dean turned to see a tall man with dark curly hair in a long peacoat standing before him. His silhouette reminded him somewhat of Cass when he’d first laid eyes on him. Messy hair, long coat, powerful stance. His piercing eyes also made him think of that damn angel and he groaned slightly.

“Sherlock.” John sighed, walking towards his friend. He turned back to Dean, “I hope you figure everything out.” 

“Thanks, you too.” Dean half smiled, Sherlock eyed Dean warily as the hunter awkwardly waved at the detective. 

“John, who is that man?” Sherlock asked John in a hushed tone, yet Dean could hear every word. 

“His name is Dean Winchester and he’s a friend in a similar situation.” John answered, the aggravation clear in his tone, yet so was the adoration. 

“No he’s not, it’s very clear that he’s a hunter who-” Sherlock began.

“No. Don’t.” John held up a hand to stop Sherlock talking, “Don’t deduce a man I’ve just met who I actually enjoyed talking to. Don’t do it.” 

“I’m a hunter who what?” Dean asked, suddenly intrigued by how this man could know he was a hunter, yet if he knew what he hunted remained to be seen. John sighed and dropped his head, defeated, allowing Sherlock to continue. 

“You’re a hunter who is plagued by something, probably having to do with your right arm judging by how you hold it closer to yourself than the other one. You’ve just been in a fight going by your bruises and cuts, but you were the winner, going by the state of your knuckles-” Dean looked down at his revealed hand and clenched his fist, shoving it back into his jacket pocket, “-This person you fought, meant quite a lot to you, those cuts on your hand weren’t normal, they saw hesitation. You’re dealing with a crisis of self and your friend who’s trying to help you allowed you to beat him in the hopes that it would relieve your pent up anger.” 

“How did you-” Dean asked, but Sherlock was smirking, looking over his shoulder; John caught onto this and looked past Dean as well to where Sherlock was staring. Dean sighed and turned, knowing full well who he was about to come face to face with.

“Hello Dean.” Castiel said. 

“Come John, we’ve our own problems to attend.” Sherlock said, turning and not waiting for John to follow. John shook his head and looked at Dean one last time who looked back at him, his eyes filled with discontent. John clenched his jaw as he narrowed his eyes at Dean and nodded his head once before he turned and followed his friend, hoping it would give him the strength he needed to have the conversation he was about to have. It did. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how I came up with the idea for this one. That first part with John has been sitting in my computer for a while. And then the first line "Dean didn't know how he ended up here" was written, but nothing else. So I finished it. And I updated it to make it current. It really worked out! Dean's always lost! 
> 
> Anywho, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
